When in Rome, do as Rome Does
by ThePet
Summary: How will Snape and McGonagall survive in Muggle London, pretending to be a married couple? NOW COMPLETE!
1. Chapter One

A/N Here's the first part of that Snape/McGonagall go muggle fic I promised! Thanks to all those who encouraged me to write this fic. For those who haven't read 'If You Go Down to the Woods Today…', it isn't necessary to read it first, but the present story would probably make more sense if you did - it's a standalone plot, but a development of the S/McG interaction which began in the first story.  
  
---Sainsbury's supermarket, Muggle London, Saturday, 2.05 pm---  
  
"Beans."  
  
"What sort of beans?"  
  
"What is that supposed to mean? How many sorts are there?"  
  
"Well, baked beans, runner beans, green beans…"  
  
"Aren't they the same thing?"  
  
"Are you criticising me? You're always criticising me."  
  
"Well I wouldn't have to if you started getting things right!" Oblivious to the heads swivelling in their direction as their voices escalated, two people stood arguing in aisle 3 of the crowded supermarket. To bemused passers-by, they appeared a fairly ordinary middle-aged couple doing their weekly shop, with all the accompanying frustrations. The woman was smartly attired in a crisp tartan twinset, her hair caught up tidily in a bun, her thin lips compressed in a scowl. The man beside her was younger by some years, but his dark hair showed touches of grey at the temples. He was rather less severely dressed, wearing slacks and an open-necked dark blue shirt. Like the woman, he was frowning.  
  
"Can I help you, sir, madam?" An obsequious young shop assistant came trotting over. "Is there something I can find for you?"  
  
"No." Snapped the man instantly, and  
  
"Beans." Said the woman, simultaneously, glaring at her companion.  
  
"What sort of beans are you looking for?" The assistant trilled. The dark haired man shrugged uninterestedly.  
  
"Ask her, she's the one who wrote the list."  
  
"I think we want baked beans." Said the woman, uncertainly. "But there seem to be so many different types…"  
  
"Just take us to the beans." The man put in with some impatience. The assistant smiled soothingly.  
  
"Certainly, sir. If you and your mother would like to come with me…" This last sentence was a mistake. The man smirked, but his companion bridled, turning furious eyes and almost nonexistently thin lips upon the shop assistant.  
  
"Thank you, I am his *wife*!" The unfortunate assistant cringed, backing hurriedly into a display of buy-one-get-one-free beer bottles.  
  
"I think we are capable of finding the beans for ourselves, are we not, Michael?"  
  
"Oh, of course, Margaret." Replied her husband soothingly, but with a glitter of unfriendly amusement in his black eyes. Margaret turned her back haughtily on the assistant and, seizing her husband's arm, led him swiftly away.  
  
Five minutes later, however, their voices could be heard once more, this time from behind a shelf of spices.  
  
"They don't seem to have any powdered dragon's tooth."  
  
"Of course they don't! This is a mu…a standard supermarket. Not like the *special* shops we have back home!" She added, in a harsh undertone.  
  
"What," the man said loudly, "you mean, back home in *Chelmsford*?"  
  
"Yes, I mean *home* in *Chelmsford* which is where we come from." Now people really were starting to look at them strangely. With a sigh, 'Margaret' grabbed a handful of bottles and packets from the spices shelf.  
  
"These will have to do. Come on now." 'Michael', rolling his eyes, followed her to the till, where she threw the things into several carrier bags, while he produced a credit card and waved it at the pretty, plump cashier, who beamed up at him in a happy, dazed sort of way, clearly having been trained well for her job.  
  
"That'll be fifty pounds and seventeen pence, sir."  
  
"I have this bit of plastic. No actual cash. Though I thoroughly understand the operation of your monetary system. I mean our monetary system."  
  
"That'll do nicely." She took the card, fiddled with it, and handed it back. The man looked surprised.  
  
"Oh, don't you want to keep it?"  
  
"No, sir." Bubbled the cashier. "You'll be needing it, I expect."  
  
"Ah." The curious couple departed together, the man carrying five filled- to-bursting carrier bags in each hand, the woman slipping the plastic card into her small handbag.  
  
---57, The Hideyhole, muggle London, Saturday, 3:35 pm---  
  
"I notice I'm carrying all the bags as usual. Do you have some sort of disease which prevents you from fetching and carrying?" 'Margaret' was opening the white painted door of apartment 57 with a silver key. She ignored 'Michael's' complaints.  
  
"I mean," he went on irritably as they went inside, "we've been pretending to be married for only three days, and you treat me like a house- elf. Fetch this, fetch that, go shopping, make tea, be nice to the muggles, don't curse them…"  
  
"When in Rome, Severus."  
  
"…be treated like a bloody slave, yes, I think I get the idea." Severus Snape, for truly it was he, dumped the bulging carrier bags and flung himself down into a battered armchair, gazing around the flat with some distaste. It was fairly small, with little room for pacing, which was a frustration in itself. There was a living room with sofa and one armchair, a coffee table, fireplace and that mysterious muggle invention called a 'television'. The kitchen was a continuation of the lounge - it was small but functional, and Snape despised it. There was also, of course, a bathroom, and to Snape's utter embarrassment and exasperation, a single bedroom. Which meant, naturally, that he slept on the sofa, far too small for his lanky body - Snape had had a crick in his neck for the past two days and it wasn't making his temper any sweeter.  
  
He watched grimly while his partner in this grotesque comedy of errors, Minerva McGonagall, unpacked the various foodstuffs and potion ingredients they had bought, stowing them away in the little kitchen cupboards with annoying efficiency. Blasted perfect Gryffindors.  
  
Snape rose moodily and wandered into the kitchen. Coming face-to-glass with an oval mirror, he glared at his own reflection.  
  
"It just doesn't suit me."  
  
"Hm?" McGonagall was trying to wedge three boxes of rosemary into a space better suited to a pinhead. "What doesn't?"  
  
"My hair."  
  
McGonagall sighed. "What's wrong with it?"  
  
"The grey. It makes me look…old."  
  
"It makes you look a few years older. It was necessary - we don't want to attract any attention by appearing unorthodox in terms of age difference."  
  
"Unorthodox! That shop boy thought you were my mother, for Merlin's sake. You *still* look twenty years older than me, even with those ridiculous contact lenses and the industrial strength bra."  
  
"How dare you spy on my underwear!"  
  
"I *didn't*! Replied Snape, indignantly. "The thought, if you must know, fills me with horror. You were washing the wretched thing in the sink the other day."  
  
"There's nothing shameful in needing a little more support…and speaking of support, your whinging is not making this mission any easier!"  
  
"*My* whinging! What about you? I never heard anyone complain so much about so minor a thing as my harmless little mistake." McGonagall closed the cupboard with a bang, and rounded on her colleague.  
  
"Harmless, was it? You consider volunteering me for this mission a 'harmless mistake'? Have you any idea how odious the prospect of spending three weeks in your company, pretending to be *married* to you, is to me? Why on earth did you ask Albus to send me with you?"  
  
Snape muttered something unintelligible, staring hard at the floor.  
  
"What?" Snapped McGonagall.  
  
"You were the only female staff member I could possibly contemplate pretending to be married to without going insane." There was an awkward pause. Snape looked up. To his amazement, McGonagall was gazing at him with an expression of almost girlish coyness on her usually rigid face.  
  
"Oh, Severus." She murmured, bashfully. "That's very sweet." Snape, embarrassed by both her reaction and the warm, slightly tingly feeling it was giving him, shrugged and tried to pass it off.  
  
"Can you imagine me living here with Flora Sprout for three weeks? She'd be growing things everywhere. Or Madame Hooch? She'd have me in a headlock before the first day was over. I wish you'd stop simpering," he added, "it doesn't suit you."  
  
But McGonagall continued to smile at him. She ushered him back to the armchair.  
  
"Let me make you a cup of tea. You look tired." She bustled off. Snape, leaning back in the chair, wondered whether for the first time in his life he had successively, albeit accidentally, manipulated a woman psychologically. It was an ability that he, along with the vast majority of the male population both wizard and muggle, had all but given up on acquiring - but now, witnessing his colleague's new, soppy, amiable demeanour, he wondered whether he might not turn it to his advantage.  
  
"Minerva," he said pleasantly, as she boiled the kettle, "I was just wondering…"  
  
"Yes?" She purred.  
  
"Well, whether you might see your way clear to letting me sleep in the bed tonight." McGonagall's back, all Snape could see of her, went rigid. There was the unmistakable sound of shattering ceramic.  
  
"I…I don't know, Severus, it's all so sudden…" she turned to him, met his eyes briefly, then bashfully lowered her gaze. "I'm very flattered, of course…"  
  
"What are you talking about, woman?" He demanded. "You've had that bed for two nights, it must surely be my turn by now. That sofa is almost criminally small. I have a stiff neck and my back is aching." He added pathetically.  
  
McGonagall, however, merely snorted. "Is it now." She growled, coldly, pouring a cup of tea. As she headed towards him, Snape held out his hand expectantly, but she ignored him and stormed past into the bedroom, throwing an icy, "make your own!" over her shoulder.  
  
Snape remained in his armchair, bewildered by his colleague's change of mood. He would never understand women, he decided. Bizarre, complicated, mercurial creatures…how on earth would he survive another eighteen days with this one?  
  
  
  
A/N Reviews much appreciated. I will get around to explaining just what our intrepid duo is doing in muggle London, I promise :-) 


	2. Chapter Two

A/N Thanks for all your wonderful reviews! It makes my day when people take the time to leave comments, especially nice ones ;-) You're all fabulous :-)  
  
Chapter Two  
  
Snape lay awkwardly on the tiny sofa, cramped, aching and unhappy. It was only ten thirty p.m., but McGonagall had been in bed for an hour and a half…she was a firm believer in the philosophy of 'early to bed, early to rise'. Snape had genuinely considered sneaking out to a pub, until he remembered that this was muggle London and he would be expected to fit in. Well, he didn't feel like fitting in just at the moment. He felt like slipping back into his own comfortable, safely anonymous black robes, grabbing his wand and going out to curse a few choice individuals, starting, perhaps, with the Minister for Magic - just for kicks - and certainly finishing with the entire London population. No *serious* curses of course - just relatively minor, irritating ones, sufficient to give the Minister, and the Muggles, a taste of the bad day - scratch that, bad *life* - Snape was having.  
  
Turning over with difficulty onto his left side Snape reflected on the reason he had been chosen for this mission. Not, of course, because he knew an unusual amount about muggles, and certainly not because he liked muggles - in fact, his score for the standard questionnaire administered to all potential undercover wizards masquerading as muggles had been on the low side. McGonagall, being a lily-livered Gryffindor liberal, had received a low muggle-knowledge score but a perfect muggle-antiprejudice score. Snape's scores had been embarrassing. Well, it wasn't his fault they asked such weird, out-of-date questions, like  
  
Question 157. While in London, a Muggle woman asks you directions to Madame Tussaud's. You reply:  
  
I'm afraid I don't know  
  
I don't know, try the post office  
  
(Appropriate directions)  
  
Begone, foul muggle, lest I blast you into the fires of hell with my wand  
  
Surely it just *had* to be a trick question?  
  
No, Snape had certainly not been chosen due to any love of the muggle lifestyle - he knew full well that Albus had only recommended him because of his extensive experience as a spy. Snape was a good actor, an excellent liar, and his ruthless sense of Machiavellian self-preservation stood him in good stead for the most dangerous of missions - which supposedly included the current operation, though the most dangerous thing Snape had come across so far was the elderly lady next door who wielded a particular vicious walking-stick. Perhaps slightly more dangerous was the foul- looking heap of minced food poisoning McGonagall had prepared for yesterday's dinner, which she daringly dignified with the name of 'haggis'.  
  
Dumbledore had insisted, however, that all possible care be taken to maintain their muggle covers - no letters by owl except in reply to his own; no magic to be used except in dire circumstances (they had their wands, of course, cunningly disguised as umbrellas, having borrowed the idea from Hagrid); and a hundred other little cautions. According to Dumbledore, counter-agents, working for the Dark Lord, were expecting operatives from Hogwarts and would be watching for them carefully. Dumbledore had of course provided a secret-keeper, but it was always possible that person might be kidnapped and tortured. Snape hoped if that happened the individual would keep her mouth shut.  
  
The mission plan was relatively simple. A number of muggles, almost always relatives of muggle-born witches and wizards, worked for the Ministry - sort of inside-operatives, keeping the wizarding world informed about technological, adademic, military and other developments among muggles. Recently several of these individuals had become vitally important in seeking out a number of Death-Eaters who, following Voldemort's fall, had escaped into the muggle world, assuming muggle identities. With the Dark Lord's power increasing, his ex-followers might very well return to the fray - or worse, might already have returned, acting as spies for the Dark Lord, putting muggles in serious danger.  
  
Two of the Ministry's muggle operatives who had chosen to work for Dumbledore in finding the missing Death-Eaters were a married couple called Beris and Patrick Wainthrop; they had compiled over several months a virtually complete list of the Death-Eaters' muggle identities and where they could be found. Unfortunately, before the list could passed on to Dumbledore, the couple had disappeared…almost certainly killed or kidnapped by the opposing side. But what had become of the list, and how would it be used if it still existed? It was Snape and McGonagall's task to recover both list and Wainthrops if possible, preferably without getting themselves killed.  
  
Which, of course, was easier said than done.  
  
  
  
A/N Sorry this chapter was so short - I just wanted to get the explanatory bit of plot out of the way! Will update soon! 


	3. Chapter Three

A/N Thanks as always to all my lovely reviewers :-) You people are great! Couldn't do it without your encouragement.  
  
By the way, I wrote the starting scene of this chapter in a state of pre- exam stress - or distress - so it's a bit peculiar. Anyways I've decided to leave it in. This story might yet turn out a little darker than the previous one. But maybe not. Anyhoo on with the show, and thanks again for your very welcome and encouraging comments :-) And yes, Snape's whiskey *will* be making another appearance…if not in this story then certainly in the next!  
  
Chapter Three  
  
Severus Snape lay curled on his side, body trembling violently with fear, with anguish, with agony. With the knowledge that this dreadful pain was only just beginning and would get worse and never stop…the Dark Lord stood over him as he shuddered, wand raised, mad eyes fixed in hatred upon his betrayer as Snape writhed helpless before Voldemort's fury. The Dark Lord moved closer still, looming over the prone figure, his wand poised, and all around him Snape could somehow hear and see and feel the presence of all those innocents, those men and women and children, who had died by Voldemort's hand and by the hands of his followers, by *Snape's* hand, murdered by his own foolish helpless lust for power, for recognition, for adoration…  
  
All he had received was torment and suffering and endless, boundless, self-destroying guilt…Snape had paid for his crimes against humanity with his soul, but he would pay for betraying Voldemort with his life.  
  
The Dark Lord, stooping, an evil grin on his face, stabbed his wand forward, thrusting it into Snape's stomach as though trying to destroy him from the inside outwards…Snape felt the foul pressure of the wand's cold tip against his belly…but he would not die with his eyes closed in terror, a mewling whimpering animal. He would die gazing cold and aloof into those hated eyes. As the wand prodded forward again Snape threw back his head and opened his eyes wide.  
  
Minerva McGonagall stood over him, prodding him unceremoniously with the end of a spoon.  
  
"Come on, wake up! It's almost half past nine, you lazy devil!" Snape, still half caught in the horrors of his dream, clamped his hand over his mouth to muffle a cry and flung himself back, shivering, snapping his eyes shut again. As the sense of nightmarish unreality faded, humiliation and disgust at having revealed so much of himself to a colleague set in. Snape kept his eyes closed tightly, too ashamed and embarrassed to look at McGonagall. He felt her pressure on the sofa and the slight warmth of her against his legs as she sat beside him. He imagined, with increased self- hatred, the cold look of scorn upon her face, the thoughts that must be going through her head… a grown man! How pathetic! the derision in her tone as she told him icily to pull himself together…  
  
All that he actually perceived, however, was a light warm touch on his shoulder, then on his wrists as McGonagall gently pulled his hands away from his face. Opening his eyes slowly, he lifted his head momentarily to her face. It was full of anxiety, not scorn, her brow furrowed in concern. When she spoke it was softly and without judgement.  
  
"Are you all right?" He swallowed, gritted his teeth, took a deep breath, then slowly looked up once more.  
  
"Yes." Would she understand? Was it possible to explain that after all these years the nightmares had never abated, that they never would, that the only thing he could use to stop them was a dreamless sleep potion - which could only be taken once a month and inevitably wore off too soon, leaving him prey to those hideous images every time he tried to rest? Snape had been concerned when he realised that the potion's effects were reaching their end, but he had hoped the dreams would not return so suddenly and so horribly.  
  
At least she wasn't laughing or sneering at him, though…perhaps he could trust her after all with his fears…  
  
He was about to speak when she patted his hand in brisk comfort and handed him the spoon she still held. Snape froze, blinked. It was going to be one of those days…they always started in a surreal manner…  
  
"I made you some porridge." McGonagall explained. It's getting cold."  
  
Snape uncoiled himself with difficulty, wincing as his spine crackled. With a matronly air that reminded him of Madam Pomfrey McGonagall grabbed Snape by the shoulders and planted her knee in the small of his back. He yelped, but was able to straighten up without toppling over.  
  
"Thank you very much." He growled. McGonagall shrugged as she led the way to the table.  
  
"By the way," she said offhandedly as he sat down and eyed the greyish lumpy stuff she had prepared with suspicion, "d'you want me to give you a charm to ward off those nightmares?" He glanced up. She was gazing at him in an intense worried sort of way which didn't match her casual tone.  
  
"Albus said we weren't to perform any unnecessary magic." Snape reminded her, spooning up some porridge and regretting it. McGonagall continued to peer at him as though he were some mysterious specimen in a zoo.  
  
"I'd hardly call it unnecessary. How do you ever sleep with that sort of thing going on?" And Snape, who would have poured his heart out to her ten minutes ago when she wasn't listening, refused to answer.  
  
The morning passed slowly. The professors were waiting for a communication from Dumbledore giving them instructions about where to start looking for the Wainthrops and their immensely useful list of Death-Eaters. Snape had suggested that the first port of call should be the other muggle agents, but Dumbledore had vetoed this, not wanting to endanger the muggles' lives any more than was necessary. He'd rather endanger ours instead thought Snape, unfairly. Dumbledore's idea sounded rather suicidal to Snape: contact the only Death-Eater they did have a name for and try to weasel information out of him, without revealed their identities. It occurred to Snape that he would most likely be recognised by this nefarious individual, who went by the incongruous name of 'Ted' and owned a greengrocer's somewhere in Camden Town. But Dumbledore assured the potions master that their suspect contact was no longer working for Voldemort. He had come seen the error of his ways, like Snape himself, and was only hiding out among muggles because he feared the Dark Lord's wrath. 'Ted' was, it seemed, a rather bewildered, dimwitted little git who had followed Voldemort in the first place only because he was too afraid to refuse. But Snape was not by nature a trusting man; he had far too often found that the most charming and innocuous of people could be the most dangerous. And vice-versa. Snape remembered vividly how the fearsome Crabbe, Lucius Malfoy's vile bodyguard at Hogwart's, had been reduced to tears by the then head of Slytherin house, professor Salazia Sollander, following an incident with a Hufflepuff girl and a rabbit.  
  
Snape was startled out of his reverie by an exclamation from McGonagall.  
  
"It's here!"  
  
"What is?"  
  
"Albus' letter."  
  
"Surely the headmaster wouldn't draw attention to us by sending an owl in the *morning*?" Snape argued.  
  
"It isn't an owl." Replied McGonagall, opening the window to let in a small brown bird. "It's a thrush."  
  
"How original." Snape sighed. "What does it say?"  
  
"It isn't a *talking* thrush, Severus!"  
  
The potions master rolled his eyes. "What does the *letter* say, woman?"  
  
McGonagall unrolled the piece of parchment she had taken from the bird and read aloud:  
  
"My dear friends and colleagues, I hope this note finds you both well, and that you have settled in to your accommodation. My apologies for the small size of the apartment, it was the best that could be secured at short notice.  
  
On the basis of recent intelligence, I can tell you that Mr. Ted Mason, formerly known as Octavian Mont-Strepping, resides at number forty-six, the High Street, Camden Town. It is the little flat above the greengrocers. I can assure you that Ted is not a threat, but he may take some persuading before he is willing to give you any information. Please use any means necessary - within reason! - to gain his assistance.  
  
The bird will await your report. I wish you both luck.  
  
Sincerely,  
  
Albus Dumbledore."  
  
"The die is cast, then." Muttered Snape. McGonagall, folding the note, looking at him thoughtfully.  
  
"You really believe this Ted Mason might not be what he seems?"  
  
"Dark wizards are rarely stupid when it comes to self-preservation. It seems to me that Mason would betray us in an instant if he thought it might benefit him. And if he was offered a bribe by the Dark Lord's agents…"  
  
"He would take it?" McGonagall gasped.  
  
"Whatever else he may be, this man is, or was once, a Mont-Strepping. My family was once on intimate terms with the Mont-Streppings. The family consists almost entirely of dark wizards. I knew one of them well at school - Augustus Mont-Strepping, he was in the year above me, vile little git he was as well. Not a decent bone in his body nor a decent cell in his brain. In fact, he was very nearly sorted into Hufflepuff. Anyway, the point is that Gus, like all his foul family, have never been known to refuse a bribe of any sort, especially monetary, although they already have more money than sense. Quite disgusting really. Willing to crawl to anybody if it pays."  
  
"Yet Albus appears to trust him."  
  
"I think it more likely that the headmaster has no choice. Except for the other muggle agents, Mont-Strepping - or Mason - is the only one likely to have any helpful information. It would be remarkable if he didn't know the identity of at least a few of the Death-Eaters on that list of the Wainthrop's. There's a good chance he known something about the couple's fate as well. Mont-Streppings always keep their ears to the ground. They aren't bright, but they snuffle up information like Nifflers, and are happy to sell it to anybody. Not an ounce of integrity."  
  
"Why do I get the impression that if we have to interrogate this person I'll be the good cop?" McGonagall sighed. "You seem to have it in for this Mont-Strepping already. Don't tell me - his brother cheated you out of your pocket money at poker?"  
  
Snape looked up sharply. "What is that supposed to mean?"  
  
"Only that you clearly have a personal grudge against this man's family."  
  
"My grudges are my own business."  
  
"Not when they might affect this mission. If it's something serious, Severus, I want to know about it. Don't forget that you are still my subordinate, even outside Hogwarts. I will allow nothing to jeopardise this mission!"  
  
Snape flinched slightly. McGonagall was going into her strict-teacher routine. He hated it when she spoke to him as though he was one of her pupils rather than a teacher and head of house.  
  
"Very well." He snapped. "If you wish to know so much…I dislike the Mont-Streppings because of their association with my family. Enough?"  
  
"Hardly. What heinous thing have these people done to you?"  
  
Snape shuddered. "We used to…have parties together, I remember them from childhood. Polite, boring cocktail parties." He closed his eyes, paling at the memory. "There was a ridiculous number of Mont-Strepping children. I used to have to…play with them." He closed his eyes. "Horrible experience. They had less intellect between them than a mentally impaired flagstone. And there was an aunt…" with his eyes closed Snape could not see McGonagall struggling not to laugh. "a big, fat woman," he continued, faintly. "Mildred. 'Call me Aunty Millie!' she used to say. And she'd pinch my cheek and tell me I should eat more. And then, when I got older…when I was sixteen…" a violent shiver went through Snape's whole body. "The matriarch of my family - my grandmother Livia - and Aunty Mildred got together and…and…"  
  
"What did they do?" McGonagall whispered, her hand to her mouth - hiding a smirk.  
  
"They betrothed me to the eldest Mont-Strepping daughter." Snape almost groaned. McGonagall fought back a cry of laughter.  
  
"What happened?" She asked.  
  
"I escaped, of course. Weaselled out of it. The girl was awful - not so much her appearance, but her personality. She was one of those fluffy, kittens-and-daisy-chains sort of girls. She wore pink frilly robes and a nightdress with little teddy bears on it. I despised her. She adored me; I suppose nobody else would have her. Followed me about for three weeks yapping about our engagement. Then inspiration struck - I introduced her to Lucius Malfoy, she fell for him, cancelled the engagement, and I got off scot-free, though Lucius didn't talk to me for six months afterwards." Snape concluded triumphantly. "Now perhaps you understand just how appalling the Mont-Streppings really are."  
  
"What a tragic tale of young love." Murmured McGonagall.  
  
"It was most traumatic." Agreed Snape, so seriously that his companion could hold back no longer- she burst into gales of laughter. Snape gazed at her balefully.  
  
"You did ask." He muttered.  
  
"Oh, Severus." McGonagall exclaimed, wiping her eyes, "I sometimes think you'll be the death of me."  
  
"Let us hope," he replied grimly, "that Octavian Mont-Strepping will not be the death of us."  
  
  
  
A/N Will out heroes finally get the information they're looking for? Will Snape refrain from stomping 'Ted' into the dust? Find out in Chapter Four! :-) 


	4. Chapter Four

A/N In this chapter we meet Octavian Mont-Strepping (or Ted Mason as he prefers these days). The name 'Mont-Strepping' came out of my imagination, such as it is, though I think there's a place called Strepping somewhere, so I suppose there's something in the old saying that there's nothing new under the sun!  
  
Thanks again for your reviews and encouragement. They, and it, mean a tremendous amount to this poor bewildered writer.  
  
  
  
Chapter Four  
  
"Something concerns me about this mission." Fretted McGonagall.  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"If this Mason - I mean Mont-Strepping - is an old family friend, won't he recognise you?"  
  
"Yes, he will. Which means slightly different measures are called for. There's little point in us pretending to be muggles in front of him. I propose instead that you retain your fake identity while I threaten him with violence."  
  
McGonagall was not convinced.  
  
"Albus did say to use any methods 'within reason'. I'm not sure violence is 'within reason'."  
  
"I only say I'd threaten him, not actually hurt him. I'm rather good at threatening people."  
  
"Indeed, you are one of the most sinister individuals I have ever met."  
  
"Why thank you."  
  
"That isn't a good thing, Severus! I mean Michael." McGonagall added quickly. They were seated on the number nine bus from Victoria to Camden, which was not the most appropriate place for a conversation about ex-Death Eaters and torture techniques, given that the bus was full of muggle Londoners.  
  
"What then do you propose?" Demanded Snape, in a whisper.  
  
"That we greet this person politely. Pretend the meeting is an accident. Just how much contact does this Mason have with our part of the world?"  
  
"Probably he will have access to the more important information, but I doubt he'll know much in the way of gossip, although in the old days his lot could yak for England and eavesdrop for Great Britain and knew everything about everybody. Why?"  
  
"We could easily enough keep up the pretence to be married. You could introduce me as your muggle wife."  
  
Snape grunted. "Mont-Strepping would never believe I'd taken a muggle wife."  
  
"Not even an extraordinarily intelligent and beautiful woman?"  
  
"Where do we find one of those? It was a joke!" He added quickly, as McGonagall's lips began to disappear. "All right, the idea has some merit. I suppose he might think I was overcompensating for my earlier…activities. Yes, the more you mention it, the more sense it makes. But why do it that way?"  
  
"Obvious, my dear Severus. If Mason thinks I'm a muggle, he will be more likely to let information slip because he will assume I know nothing of all that's been happening. In fact, you might try to persuade him that you yourself have taken a muggle identity, just as he did. Will he have information to the contrary?"  
  
"Probably not." Snape heaved a sigh. "Very well then, I will interact with this foul excrescence just to please you."  
  
"And for the sake of the mission."  
  
"Personally," growled Snape, "I preferred my torture idea…"  
  
Late that afternoon, they finally arrived at the little grocer's shop - it took several hours to negotiate Camden Town, what with Snape insisting that he knew the way and ending up wandering around Camden Lock, surrounded by menacing-looking punks trying to sell him suspect substances. After Snape had dangerously offended one of the punks by asking whether there was a cure for his condition, McGonagall grabbed her 'husband's' arm and dragged him forcefully back to safety.  
  
The shop was innocuous enough, small but brightly painted outside and in. McGonagall pretended interest in a heap of unnaturally large marrows - magically enlarged, she suspected - while Snape skulked beside her and kept an eye out for Ted Mason.  
  
"There!" He hissed, suddenly, nudging his companion and almost knocking her into a display of iceberg lettuces.  
  
"Where?"  
  
"Behind the counter."  
  
"Honestly, Severus, where did you expect him to be?"  
  
'Ted' was serving a customer, an elderly lady dithering about whether or not to purchase some 'nice red cabbage' for her husband's tea. When the old dear finally departed Snape cleared his throat and said loudly,  
  
"What enormous marrows!" Sneaking a glance at Ted Mason as he did so. The Death-Eater.-turned-greengrocer's head snapped up at the sound of a familiar, but near forgotten voice. With a cry of surprise he waddled over - being somewhat overweight. Mason had a flushed, doughy sort of look about him, and the redness of his nose suggested he liked to indulge in alcohol. The mousy hair atop his large round head was thinning, probably in direct proportion to the thickening of his waist, and a vaguely repulsive beer-gut hung over his aged trousers. A man living well and trying to pretend otherwise, Snape deduced, thoughtfully. He had not failed to notice a sovereign ring upon Mason's finger, or the fact that the oval framed spectacles the man wore were expensively rimmed with white gold - muggle greengrocers didn't as a rule have *that* sort of money without carrying on a little hobby on the side…  
  
Snape looked up from his pretended zealous examination of the marrows, as did McGonagall, when Mason approached them.  
  
"Severus!" the shopkeeper roared. "Severus…it *is* you, isn't it?" Before Snape could reply, 'Mason' grabbed his hand in a podgy paw and shook it vigorously. "You do remember me, old fellow?" Mason lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Rumours of my death, and all that. I'm still live and kicking, as you can see, ha ha ha! Well then! Going to introduce me to your lovely companion? Ha ha ha!"  
  
Snape shuddered. The Mont-Strepping laugh. His mind had blocked it out until now…so horrible…false and grating…ugh…with as much dignity as he could muster (his hand was still being pumped by Mont-Strepping) Snape indicated McGonagall.  
  
"This is my wife, Margaret. Margaret, this is Octavian Mont-Strepping, an old friend of the family." Leaning forward quickly - which unhappily involved coming rather close to Mason - he hissed, "she's a *muggle*…doesn't know about…you know, my past."  
  
"Oh!" Mason grinned at McGonagall, showing hideous rotten teeth. "Pleasure to meet you, m'dear, great pleasure, charmed, charmed." Mason finally released Snape's hand to shake McGonagall's. His piggy eyes flicked briefly to Snape, full of greed as he contemplated the blackmail opportunity dropped into his lap.  
  
"I suppose I'll have to tell you all Sevvy's deep dark secrets eh? Ha ha ha! We go way back, he and I, way back, don't we, old boy?"  
  
"Hmm." Muttered Snape, a muscle twitching in his cheek.  
  
"Yes, right back to our schooldays, not that we were in the same year, but I think you knew my brother, what? Fine boy, fine boy. Doing well, you'll be glad to hear, well, well, well. Ha ha ha!"  
  
I'm going to kill him Snape thought calmly. never mind wands, I'm going to rip out his foul throat with my bare hands if he laughs that laugh one more time…  
  
"Ha ha ha!"  
  
Aaaaagh! Kill! Kill!  
  
"Ha ha ha!"  
  
Snape's legs were trembling, his hands writhing together as he struggled to prevent himself from going for Mason's neck. Apparently he wasn't doing a perfect job of hiding his feelings, for McGonagall was staring at him as a muggle might a hippogriff…with a quick tight smile she grabbed Snape's hand and entwined his trembling fingers with her own.  
  
"We've been married for five years now!" She burbled with false cheer, squeezing Snape's hand agonisingly. "Haven't we, *dearest*?" She hissed, and gave her fake husband a small but vicious kick in the ankle.  
  
"Ouch! I mean, yes, yes." Snape's eyes were starting to bulge out of his head.  
  
"Ha ha ha!" Said Mason, inevitably. Snape shuddered, and McGonagall's hand tightened on his.  
  
"Well, we must be getting along…" she smiled. "But first, I really must purchase one of your wonderful marrows, Mr. Mont-Strepping."  
  
"Call me Octy, call me Octy. No, no, I wouldn't dream of having you pay…take a few, help yourself, consider it a gift."  
  
"You're very kind!" Squealed McGonagall. She really was a far better actress than Snape had given her credit for. She chose a couple of large marrows and Mason put them into a bag for her.  
  
"Well, it's naughty of old Sevvy to have hidden you away…" the greengrocer oozed. "I didn't even know he was living in London…you should both come over for dinner, meet the missus, she'd be delighted, ha ha ha!"  
  
"Oh, how kind!" Exclaimed McGonagall. "We'd love to…wouldn't we, Severus? Severus? SEVERUS!" She kicked him again.  
  
"Wha…oh, yes, yes. We'd love to. Dinner. Wonderful." Snape spat out the words through a mouthful of bitter bile.  
  
"Shall we say, seven thirty? We live above the shop, little place but our own, ha ha ha! Can't introduce the kids I'm afraid, they're away abroad, say they're studying but really spending all their father's money, ha ha ha! Ha ha HA…!"  
  
Snape wondered if he was going to be sick. That high-pitched over-the- top aristocratic voice…the smarm…the laugh…the marrows…  
  
"We'll certainly see you then, and I look forward to it!" McGonagall was saying. She squeezed Snape's hand.  
  
"Ah…yes, Octavian, very kind of you. We shall see you this evening. I won't be a minute, my dear." He added, shooing McGonagall out of the shop, after firmly extracting his hand from hers. McGonagall hesitated, then backed slowly outside, giving Snape a warning look.  
  
"Octavian," Snape murmured when she was out of earshot, "you won't mention…"  
  
"Of course not, old boy, we all have our little secrets, eh? But you've turned over a new leaf anyway, working for dear old Albus Dumbledore, eh?" Snape nearly gulped.  
  
"As a potions teacher." Finished Mason, and Snape sighed - internally - with relief.  
  
"I was," he said, "but, well, I met Min…Margaret, and one thing led to another - she knows I'm a wizard of course but nothing about…the unfortunate events of my younger days. I'd prefer it if she was kept innocent of that particular knowledge."  
  
"You can rely on me, old fruit, you can certainly rely on me, as I said, all got our little secrets, ha ha ha! Of course I was overwhelmed with guilt, just overwhelmed, bowed down, me and the missus both, all those poor muggles, who'd have thought it? Tcha! All those lives. Terrible, terrible, never thought it'd go that far but once you're in you're in eh? Hard to get out of with your life. Bit of luck that Potter lad coming along, eh? Ha ha ha! Wonder how he's doing now? Funny sort of life for a boy, eh? Well I just had to give it all up afterwards, you know, old boy, too much guilt, too much guilt, being hoodwinked by the Dark Lord, me, a Mont-Strepping! Hence the living among muggles, as a poor greengrocer, trying to Atone, you know, Redeem myself, by giving them the best vegetables in London, ha ha ha! No, no, terriible shame, terrible shame. But you know, Severus…" Mason's voice lowered to a harsh whisper, and for a moment something other than foppishness, far worse than greed, flickered in his small watery eyes. "I've been hearing rumours, old boy. Rumours that the Dark Lord is regaining his power." The piggy eyes narrowed, the nostrils flared, the thick lips quivered. "Don't suppose *you've* heard anything of the sort, have you, Sevvy old fellow?"  
  
"Can't say I have." Replied Snape, calmly- though he was shaken by the hideous *wanting* in Mason's voice. Mason continued to regard Snape with narrowed eyes for a moment, then he laughed his appalling laugh, and the moment mercifully passed.  
  
"Well! Mustn't keep you from your lovely lady, Severus. See you tonight then, old boy! We'll make it an evening to remember, what? Ha ha ha!" And Snape found himself practically shepherded out of the shop. Once outside, he stood shivering a little on the footpath, wondering just how much of his horror and disgust he had given away. It was blatant that Mason was positively hankering for Voldemort's return…those sickening words of fake contrition only made it more horrible…but McGonagall was shaking his arm, snapping him out of his unhappy (and guilty) thoughts.  
  
"Severus! What did he say? Anything useful?"  
  
Snape swallowed a few times, took a breath, and brought himself forcibly under control.  
  
"Like I told you," he replied smoothly, "a typical Mont-Strepping. He's quite happy for the Dark Lord to return provided there's something in it for him. And he's planning to blackmail me." McGonagall waved this off.  
  
"But did he say anything about the Wainthrops, or the list?"  
  
"No…we will hopefully be able to find out something this evening. I sincerely hope this Mont-Strepping, Mrs. is not of the same branch of the family."  
  
"Severus!"  
  
"They inbreed, Minerva. No one else would have them. Come on," abruptly he grasped her arm and led her away down the street. "I need something to wash this foul taste out of my mouth…"  
  
  
  
A/N The end of another exciting - ahem - instalment. BTW Mont-Strepping's infuriating laugh is inspired by, and sounds like, that of Dr. Prunesquallor in Mervyn Peake's 'Gormenghast' trilogy. The plot thickens! If you can spare a moment please review… 


	5. Chapter Five

A/N You delightful people, reviewing my story :-) thank you all!!! We're starting to get to the crux now…remember the action/adventure I promised? It's coming, it's coming! So is the plot. And plenty more of 'Ted Mason' and his *lovely* wife…  
  
Chapter Five  
  
Snape was lurking in the lounge of Apartment 57, uncomfortably dressed in a stiff hired suit of a disgusting beige colour. Minerva had refused to allow him to wear black -  
  
"It's a dinner party, not a funeral, Severus!"  
  
Now he waited, waited, waited, the clock apparently ticking but the hands seeming not to move at all; only the occasional mutter or slithering noise from the bathroom convinced him that McGonagall was, in fact, still alive in there.  
  
"How much longer?" He demanded, for the fifth time, rapping loudly on the door.  
  
"Will you have patience, man? We've plenty of time!"  
  
"Minerva, if you don't hurry up we'll need a blasted time turner just to make it for dessert. What are you *doing* in there? It doesn't matter what you look like, it's only the bloody Mont-Streppings, after all. They wouldn't notice if you wore a grenadier's uniform."  
  
"We don't want to look suspicious!" Another ten minutes oozed by, punctuated by mysterious hissing noises. Eventually Snape rapped again on the door.  
  
"Are you trying to give yourself a facelift or something? Hurry *up!*"  
  
"Oh, all right, all right, I'm coming…" The door opened slowly.  
  
"Well it's about…" Snape began, then froze, mid sentence, as McGonagall emerged fully into the light. Astonished, he blinked and gaped like a pimply teenager on a first date.  
  
Minerva looked good - no, *magnificent* was a better word. She wore a shimmering wine coloured dress trimmed with gold, which hugged her slim figure while falling respectably to her ankles. The neckline was just low enough to be interesting, and a glittering silver choker drew attention to the smooth curve of her neck. Her raven hair was not restrained by its usual bun: it was braided and hung down over her left shoulder. It made her look younger. The effect as a whole was truly quite remarkable. She smiled a little self-consciously at Snape's startled face, but all he said, in a dazed voice, was,  
  
"Er…well done."  
  
Hurt, she shot him a dark look. "What is *that* supposed to mean?"  
  
"It means…you look beautiful." He replied without thinking, and her sharp expression melted; she smiled more warmly as she took his arm.  
  
"Thank you, husband."  
  
The taxi dropped them off near the Mont-Strepping…abode…and the pair made their way down the street, looking rather out of place in their finery. They walked arm in arm, as much for mutual protection as to keep up appearances, and despite the lack of rain both carried umbrellas.  
  
As they approached the door of 'Ted Mason's' shop, Snape paused.  
  
"Are you ready?"  
  
McGonagall nodded impatiently.  
  
"Of course. You're acting as though we're both heading to grim, inevitable deaths, Severus. Relax, it's just a dinner party…albeit a rather useful one." But Snape was not soothed.  
  
"I have a bad feeling about this." He muttered. "Something just isn't right…Mont-Strepping knows something, I'm sure of it."  
  
"Well, that's all to the good!"  
  
"Perhaps." But he was worried, and the concern was starting to rub off on McGonagall. Unknowingly she tightened her grip on his arm, searching his pale, frowning face.  
  
"This must be hard for you." She said eventually. "Meeting Mont- Strepping so casually…it must remind you of…" she hesitated as he looked away from her, glaring at the floor.  
  
"Come on." He said quietly. "Let's get it over with."  
  
  
  
"Ha ha ha!"  
  
"Hahaha!"  
  
"Ha ha ha!"  
  
Snape poured another glass of wine.  
  
His seventh.  
  
McGonagall, watching him, could not help but sympathise. Agatha Mont- Strepping was not only snobbish, dimwitted and unbearably self-satisfied, but she had the same hideous laugh as her husband - just two octaves higher.  
  
"Well now, Severus." Octavian Mont-Strepping roared cheerfully, chugging down the last of the red wine - a rather good vintage, but neither Snape nor his 'wife' were in an appropriate mood to appreciate it - "time to fetch the port, what, and let the ladies make their way to the withdrawing room, ha ha ha!"  
  
"Quite." Came the potions master's grim reply. For her part McGonagall was deeply affronted. Withdrawing room indeed! How ridiculously obsolete. Nevertheless, it did give Minerva a chance to pump the foolish female Mont- Strepping for information her more wily husband might be wary of revealing. Meanwhile Snape could work on that wily husband, hopefully without resorting to some obscure form of torture which would doubtless give the game away. McGonagall glanced over her shoulder at Snape as she was ushered out of the dining room by Agatha. The Potions Master was pouring yet another glass of wine, and twitching slightly in his seat. Not a good sign, but the situuation was out of Minerva's hands…  
  
"So," burbled Agatha, as the women settled themselves in comfortable chairs in a poky little den which apparently served as the drawing room, "do tell me all about yourself, Minerva! Octavian was so talkative at dinner, we hardly got a chance to speak to one another, but that's men I suppose, hahaha! You're a Muggle, aren't you, now that must be interesting. How *do* you get on without magic?"  
  
"I don't need to." Replied McGonagall, trying vainly to keep the edge of utter dislike out of her voice. "I'm married to a wizard."  
  
"Well, quite! Of course." Agatha seemed flustered, realising perhaps that she had asked a stupid question. She didn't let that knowledge prevent her from wittering on with more of the same, of course.  
  
"I do hope I haven't offended you, using the word 'muggle'. Of course us purebloods use it all the time but then, we never think how it might sound to a non-magical person. Perhaps it's terribly rude! I remember once…" she prattled on, telling some bizarre and pointless story about previous encounters with the 'magically disadvantaged'. McGonagall simply tuned out after a few minutes, remaining alert for any useful information while analysing Agatha with all the experience of her many years of teaching. If nothing else, those years had provided a great capacity for judging characters quickly.  
  
Agatha seemed relatively harmless, if rather bigoted. Liable to follow her foul husband in whatever he wanted to do. She could only be dangerous under the instructions of another, but for all that she was not soft- hearted, and like Octavian, there was a certain cunning about her. A definite Slytherin, thought Minerva, then smiled as she imagined the look of horror that would appear on Snape's face if she told him so.  
  
"…but I'm talking far too much, do jump in, Minerva, hahaha! You're very quiet. How did you meet Severus? I've never met him before myself, though my husband knows him by association. Their families are, or rather were, very close…*our* families, I should say, because I'm a Mont-Strepping too of course, hahaha! Octavian is actually my third cousin, but what's a few degrees of relative between purebloods, hahaha!"  
  
I owe Severus a Galleon McGonagall mused to herself. Aloud she said,  
  
"We met through my neice, who is a witch…" sticking to the agreed story.  
  
"Oh!" Agatha jumped in - at least there was little need for dissembling when talking to a Mont-Strepping; one hardly got a chance to speak, let alone lie. "Really? How wonderful. I do think muggle-borns are impressive, they do so well, don't they, considering that they're disadvantaged right from the beginning, poor things! Now once…"  
  
But McGonagall had had quite enough. It was getting late, and she was determined to extract some useful information out of Agatha - she would not allow this dreadful experience to have been for nothing!  
  
"You said," Minerva interrupted firmly, "that your family and the Snapes *used* to be close. Have they entirely lost touch?"  
  
Fortunately, Agatha was far from averse to talking about her family. She seemed quite proud of them.  
  
"Well, it's rather sad, you see, but there was some unpleasantness involving…" she seemed to hesitate, and a crafty look came over her pretty, silly face. McGonagall tensed. She got the feeling that something important was on the verge of being revealed.  
  
"Involving a certain individual whom I am not at liberty to name." Went on Agatha, carefully, obviously not supposed to be saying this but unable to resist the temptation to tell a shocking story. "This person was something of a…er…a political leader, if you like, in our world. His views were strong, but just, and our family, of course, adhered to them, as was appropriate. However the Snapes…well, Livia - she's the matriarch, you see - seemed to think the whole thing rather *beneath* them."  
  
McGonagall blinked. Snape's family thought the Dark Lord unworthy of them? In different circumstances that might almost have been amusing. Then again, it was not really so surprising - McGonagall, thankfully, had never met any of Snape's family, but Dumbledore was acquainted with Livia herself, and could be seen to shudder involuntarily whenever her name was mentioned. And McGonagall had seen the expression on Snape's face on the rare occasions he received an owl - or rather, a hawk - from his estranged grandmother - like that of a child sitting in the dentist's waiting room, while the patient before him is having his teeth drilled.  
  
Realising that Agatha had stopped speaking - a minor miracle in itself - McGonagall prompted quickly,  
  
"This leader you were talking about…is he still in power?" She waited anxiously for the answer, trying not to appear *too* interested. Agatha had opened her large mouth when,  
  
"Ha ha ha!"  
  
Her husband arrived, with a weary-looking, bemused and rather drunken Snape in tow.  
  
"What's this, then, Agatha, telling Minerva all our dark secrets, eh? Go ahead, m'dear, you may as well." Octavian boomed. Agatha simpered and fluttered her long eyelashes.  
  
"I was just saying," Snape cut in, apparently too drunk to note Octavian's curious remark, and slurring slightly, "that we ought to be on our way…s'getting late…"  
  
"I don't think so, Severus." Their host said, unusually quietly.  
  
"Hum?"  
  
"I don't think so. No, you won't be going anywhere just yet."  
  
Snape peered at Mont-Strepping in confusion.  
  
"What?"  
  
McGonagall was also staring at Mont-Strepping, her sharp mind having immediately processed the implicit threat in the man's tone. She forced herself to appear unflurried.  
  
"Well, it *is* a little late, perhaps we should go. It's been a lovely evening…" she rose quickly. "I'll just get my umbrella…"  
  
Before she could even get out of the chair, Mont-Strepping had taken a wand from inside his jacket.  
  
"Stay right where you are, muggle."  
  
"What…what on earth are you doing? If this is a joke I don't find it funny." Snapped Minerva. Snape was simply staring, aghast, at Mont- Strepping.  
  
"Bloody hell." He mumbled, dropping into a seat beside McGonagall. "I told you!" He hissed in her ear. Minerva scowled at him, then at Mont- Strepping.  
  
"Now listen to me. You have no right to threaten us like this. I don't see…"  
  
"Oh, but you will." Octavian growled. "Don't fret about that. Come on, both of you." He motioned them to get up. Minerva ground her teeth, but there was little she could do without her wand; perhaps if Snape was in any condition to help, there might have been a chance, but he seemed completely dazed. Grabbing his arm she got up and wrenched him to his feet. Mont- Strepping marched them out of the drawing room, downstairs to his shop, and eventually opened a trapdoor in the stockroom.  
  
"Down there." He growled. Snape staggered forward to peer into the darkness.  
  
"Doesn't look very nice." He muttered. McGonagall glared at him. Of all the times to be inebriated…!  
  
"Do as you're told."  
  
"No need to be like that." Snape hiccuped amicably. "We're old friends after all…" he turned glittering black eyes on Mont-Strepping, and added silkily, and with sudden lucidity, "Even if you *did* try to drug my wine…" with a lightning movement, Snape threw himself at their captor. Mont-Strepping gave a shout of alarm, tottered, lost his balance…McGonagall lunged for his wand…neither of them saw Agatha emerge from the drawing room, wand in hand. The female Mont-Strepping cried  
  
"Stupefy!" and Snape froze, then crumpled. Mont-Strepping grabbed McGonagall, thrusting her away from him, before kicking Snape's limp form into the trapdoor. McGonagall watched, horrified, as her colleague vanished into the blackness below, accompanied by a sickening thud.  
  
"Now you." Snapped Mont-Strepping. McGonagall looked from him to his wife, took a tentative step towards the trapdoor, and turned, feverishly thinking of ways to buy some time…but the Mont-Streppings had run out of patience. Octavian grabbed Minerva again, roughly, shoved her towards the trapdoor…she stumbled…lost her footing…and with a last strangled cry, fell into darkness.  
  
  
  
A/N Gasp! What will our heroes do now? Please review and tell me what you think! 


	6. Chapter Six

A/N As always, thanks to everyone for their encouraging reviews :-) This story's turning out longer than the previous one, but it's on its way to being wrapped up now!  
  
Minerva McGonagall opened her eyes slowly, painfully aware of her throbbing head, preparing herself for the blast of light which could only exacerbate the headache. She was alarmed to discover, however, that even when her eyes were fully open, she could see nothing. Nothing at all.  
  
Merlin, I've gone blind! was her first horrified thought. Carefully she lifted a hand and waved it in front of her face. She thought she could just make out the hand's shape. Forcing herself to keep calm, she waited, and slowly her vision began to adjust to the gloom. So this was the Mont- Strepping's cellar. It was far from pleasant. Quite aside from the darkness, the air was damp and foul; it was extremely cold, and the floor beneath her was hard and dirty.  
  
Minerva could make out objects leaning against the far wall - planks of wood, perhaps - a few boxes here and there, and the outline of what might be a window, though it appeared to be covered with something. No sign of Snape. With a slight groan she got to her knees and crawled forward.  
  
"Severus? Severus!" She hissed, before remembering that there was no need for quiet. It wasn't as though they didn't want to be found. "Severus!" She said, more loudly. No response. McGonagall recalled the horrible crunching sound she had heard when her colleague had fallen through the trapdoor, and shivered.  
  
She continued to move forward slowly, wondering whether it would be worth transfiguring to provide better night vision - but she decided against it, in case there was the remotest chance of the Mont-Streppings watching them. Instead she rose carefully to her feet, hands held out in front of her -she had no idea where the walls were, apart from the far wall which - she could now see - was very slightly illuminated with a minuscule amount of light from the edges of the blocked-out window. She moved towards the wall until her fingers brushed in, changed direction and began carefully to pace along it until she reached another wall, then followed that, trying to get a sense of the size of the room. From what she could calculate it was extremely small, more a little storage room than a cellar, probably no more than six feet by ten feet or so. She reached up, and found that the tips of her fingers could just about brush the ceiling. Her heart leapt for a moment before it occurred to her that the Mont-Streppngs would certainly have sealed the trapdoor by magic - escape would not be so simple as reaching up and opening it.  
  
McGonagall was still walking forward as she examined her surroundings, and in the gloom had no chance of seeing the crumpled figure until she tripped over it. Dropping to her knees, McGonagall could vaguely see a shape lying on the floor before her, in the furthest corner of the room. Tentatively she reached out and prodded the motionless body gently. No response. Feeling nauseous, Minerva was debating whether to attempt first aid in the pitch darkness when it occurred to her that this was a muggle house, after all, and had electricity - surely there would be a light of some sort even down here?  
  
Carefully stepping around her colleague, Minerva followed the wall until she came to the 'front', for lack of a better word, of the cellar. After some minutes of fruitless searching her left hand brushed against something - a sort of string dangling from the ceiling. Experimentally she gave it a tug - and to her relief, the tiny room was suddenly filled with light. She had to close her eyes against it for a moment, but as she did so, the relief increased a hundredfold, making her feel quite weak - a faint groaning was coming from the corner of the cellar!  
  
"Severus…" still shielding her eyes McGonagall stumbled back to her colleague's side. He was awkwardly trying to pull himself to a sitting position.  
  
"I thought you were dead!" She scolded, dropping to her knees beside him. "Keep still!"  
  
"I need to get the weight off my arm…" Snape managed to gasp. McGonagall, seeing what he meant, decided not to argue, and with some effort managed to help him sit, or rather slump, against the wall, while she inspected the damage.  
  
His right arm was badly broken - the bone was poking unpleasantly through the skin, and there was a fair amount of blood staining the sleeve of the vile beige jacket.  
  
"Mont-Strepping will pay for this." Muttered Snape, darkly.  
  
"Are you in a lot of pain?"  
  
"I meant the jacket." Growled the potions master. "the hire shop will never have it back now. Blood is a devil to get out of clothing. I should know."  
  
Minerva rolled her eyes but said nothing - gallows humour was simply Snape's way of pretending he wasn't in agony: the classic technique of covering up pain and fear with inappropriate wit. McGonagall had never found a need for that particular defence mechanism herself.  
  
It was awkward bandaging Snape's arm - in the end, McGonagall carefully removed and tore up his jacket, making a sling of sorts. Snape sat silently, making no sound and barely flinching as she first snapped the bone back into place, then bound up the arm as best she could. That done, she settled herself against the wall beside her colleague.  
  
"We do have a habit of ending up in these situations, don't we?" She sighed.  
  
"Hm."  
  
"I wonder what our charming hosts are up to."  
  
"Hm."  
  
"By the way, I did mean to ask…"  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"How you were able to drink so much wine - drugged wine at that - without any noticeable effect."  
  
"No great mystery." Snape grunted. "I'm immune to most rudimentary, common potions - comes with the job, you might say."  
  
"Being a potions master, or being a spy?"  
  
He smirked a little.  
  
"Both. And as to the wine…well…after drinking my special whisky for the last decade and a half, wine would hardly exert much of an influence on my faculties."  
  
McGonagall shrugged.  
  
"Pity you weren't drunk."  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"Well, it wouldn't have made a lot of difference - we'd still be stuck down here - and with your muscles relaxed, you might not have been hurt very much."  
  
Snape flashed a brief glare.  
  
"Are you implying that my attempts to save us were ineffectual?"  
  
For answer, the deputy headmistress simply gestured with both hands, indicating the poky little room in which they were imprisoned.  
  
"Yes, well…" Snape muttered, his sallow face flushing slightly. "You're always criticising me!" He growled, huddling down against the wall and closing his eyes.  
  
"What are you doing, Severus?"  
  
"Going to sleep. What else? I'm tired, I'm in pain and I've had to listen to the Mont-Streppings talking complete drivel all evening. I'm not in the mood for any more insipid conversation."  
  
"Insipid!" McGonagall was offended. "Well!"  
  
There was a brief silence. Then Snape murmured, reluctantly,  
  
"Sorry."  
  
McGonagall, though startled, merely harrumphed.  
  
More silence. And then…  
  
Ping!  
  
The light without warning went out.  
  
"What's happening?" McGonagall demanded.  
  
"How should I know, woman?" There was a panicked edge to Snape's voice which Minerva hadn't heard very often…in fact she could only remember one occasion when he'd sounded so alarmed: during the werewolf incident in the Forbidden Forest, some time ago.  
  
"Do you think the Mont-Streppings…"  
  
"I don't know!"  
  
For a few minutes the pair waited, tensely, for something terrible to happen. When nothing did, McGonagall allowed herself to relax, leaning back against the wall.  
  
"I think perhaps the light is broken." She murmured. "Muggle lighting is hardly the most efficient of inventions. Perhaps it simply…burnt out, or something."  
  
"Nonsense." Snape snapped. "What would be the point of that? You'd have to keep replacing them…and what if the light suddenly went out at an inconvenient moment, such as…when one was…sitting on the toilet, or…something…muggles surely can't be that useless!" He was speaking quickly and panting slightly between clauses. McGonagall could almost hear his heart thumping.  
  
"What on earth are you drivelling about?" She asked, then, more gently, "are you all right?"  
  
"You've spent this entire mission asking me that! Stop worrying about me and worry about what the Mont-Streppings are about to do to us…in the dark…when we can't see them creeping up on us…"  
  
"Oh, Merlin. You're afraid of the dark, aren't you?"  
  
"Certainly not!"  
  
"Werewolves and the dark…any other phobias I should know about, Severus? Perhaps you're scared of bogeymen? Perhaps you wet the bed?" Her exasperation waned as she listened to his convulsive swallowing. She sighed. This was not going to be a fun evening.  
  
"If…if you dare to tell anyone, anyone at all, about this…" Snape hissed out of the blackness.  
  
"I won't. If you promise to tell me why you're afraid of the dark."  
  
"I'm not."  
  
"And I suppose you never wake up screaming with nightmares, either."  
  
"No…oh. Damn! Only when I…"  
  
"When you what?"  
  
"Only at a particular time of the month."  
  
"You're secretly a woman?"*  
  
Snape glared at her.  
  
"If I was a woman, Minerva, perhaps I would understand better your particular brand of 'compassion'. Since when did sympathy become synonymous with bitchiness?"  
  
McGonagall bristled, but replied in a controlled voice,  
  
"Since the person towards whom the sympathy is directed decided to be a stubborn idiot."  
  
There was silence for a moment.  
  
"Why *do* you only have nightmares at certain times?" McGonagall gave in eventually to her curiosity. "It hasn't got anything to do with the…er…full moon, has it?"  
  
"My nightmares are *not* about…things. If you must know, I take a particularly strong form of dreamless sleep potion which, due to its mildly toxic ingredients, can only be taken once a month. Towards the end of the four-week period, the effects begin to wear off. It would be foolish to risk serious illness or death by overdosing."  
  
Snape rattled all this off in a breath, then closed his eyes and tried to slump in a dignified manner. His attempt to fold his arms defensively, however, resulted in a sharp cry of pain.  
  
"Oh, Severus!" McGonagall scolded, in an irritated voice which did not hide her concern. "Be careful."  
  
He grunted.  
  
"Severus…"  
  
"Gods! Yes!?"  
  
"Why are you afraid of the dark?"  
  
"Why do you want to know?" He shot back.  
  
"It's something to talk about. And it might take your mind off it."  
  
"Talking about my fear of the dark is supposed to take my mind off my fear of the dark? Well, isn't that a wonderful piece of logic! Exactly what I've come to expect from a *Gryffindor*." He sneered.  
  
"I know you're only lashing out at me because you're frightened and in pain…"  
  
"Merlin's nose, the woman is a psychologist!"  
  
"You're trying to put me off." Minerva scolded him impatiently, having had enough of his snide, snappish replies. "Is it some terribly embarrassing story? Come on, Severus, this is *me*. We've known each other for a very long time. I knew you when you were a little, neurotic, greasy brat. I've watched you grow into a tall, neurotic, greasy brat. And if you must know it, I'm not very happy with the situation either…I have a very bad feeling about all this. So I would welcome a little civilised conversation to make the hours pass more easily."  
  
A protracted silence.  
  
"Severus?"  
  
A blatantly fake snore.  
  
"You can't possibly be asleep. Not with your arm in that condition."  
  
But Snape ignored her. Sighing, McGonagall gave up on the verbal attack and decided to attempt an alternative strategy. She inched closer to Snape, found his uninjured shoulder, and leaned carefully against it.  
  
"What do you think you're doing?" The potions master growled.  
  
"Making myself comfortable." She retorted. "If you won't talk to me, I may as well use you as a cushion."  
  
"Please yourself." He grumbled. "But mind my arm."  
  
"Mmm."  
  
"Minerva?"  
  
"Mm?"  
  
"Are you going to sleep?"  
  
"Yes…"  
  
"Oh. All right."  
  
"Unless you want to talk, of course…"  
  
"No."  
  
"Well, good night, then."  
  
"Yes."  
  
Another pause.  
  
"Minerva?"  
  
"Yes, Severus?" Something about the tone of his voice made her look up, though she could see nothing of his face in the gloom.  
  
"The window." He had been staring desperately at the only sliver of light he could see - at the edge of what seemed to be a window frame.  
  
"What about it? We can't possibly escape that way. Besides…"  
  
"Why does a cellar have windows?"  
  
"What? Oh…good grief!" McGonagall couldn't believe her lack of observation. But then, there were circumstances… "perhaps…" she began, then tailed off, unable to make a sensible sounding suggestion as to why an underground room needed windows. Snape got to his feet with much scrabbling and grunting.  
  
"What are you doing?"  
  
"Finding the 'window'. That's another point - must be dark outside. Why is there light filtering around the frame?"  
  
Snape moved carefully along the wall, with McGonagall following, until he reached the object of their bewilderment. Reaching out, he ran his long fingers around the edge of the rectangle. Found something to grasp at and tugged. With some effort, the stuff covering the 'window' came off…  
  
"Oh, my goodness." Minerva gasped weakly.  
  
"Bloody hell." Agreed Snape, equally aghast.  
  
They were looking through a two feet by three feet rectangular window into what was unmistakably Dumbledore's office. The headmaster was sitting at his desk, blithely sucking a sherbet lemon as he riffled through a pile of papers.  
  
"Albus?" McGonagall exclaimed.  
  
Dumbledore looked up, and walking straight towards them with a purposeful air, paused right in front of their gaping, astonished faces…it seemed they could reach out and touch him…then, to their amazement, Dumbledore simply straightened his hat, smoothed his beard, and strode out of view.  
  
"What *is* this thing?" McGonagall demanded. Snape reached out as though to put his hand through the 'window'. It reached a solid surface, like glass. Making a fist he pounded on it. Nothing happened, except for a bolt of pain running up his arm.  
  
"Ow…I don't know. Some sort of spyglass, I suppose."  
  
"They're spying on us? The Death-Eaters are spying on us? They must know everything! All our plans…all about the mission…oh, Severus!"  
  
"Well, don't look at me. I had no idea the Dark Lord's minions had a magical device of this kind. Much less than they'd planted it in Albus' office."  
  
"Who planted it?" McGonagall wanted to know. "Who could have sufficient access to the headmaster's office?"  
  
Something in her tone nettled Snape.  
  
"Are you making some sort of insinuation? Why not just come out and ask me if I'm working for He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, McGonagall? That's what you're thinking, isn't it?"  
  
"Don't be silly. I meant nothing of the kind. If Albus considers you trustworthy, who am I to disagree?"  
  
"Aha! If *Albus* thinks so. You don't consider me trustworthy yourself, then?"  
  
"I didn't say that…why are we arguing about this *now*? We need to get out of here and warn Albus!"  
  
"And just how are we supposed to do that? We're trapped in a magical cellar with the Mont-Streppings cavorting above us. Any time now a band of Death Eaters will be here to take us off and torture us before putting us to death."  
  
"What a very defeatist attitude!"  
  
"There's little point in holding any other kind! If one is an eternal pessimist one cannot be disappointed!"  
  
"Why are you so peculiar?" McGonagall sighed, wearily. She laid a hand on his good arm. "Severus, I'm sorry if I gave the impression that I don't trust you. I trust you implicitly, believe me. And I won't allow you to give up. We *will* find a way out of here. He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named must not continue to spy on Hogwarts! It's a dirty, nasty way to fight." She added, in disgust.  
  
Snape cleared his throat meaningfully.  
  
"Except when it's a necessary means to an end, employed justly, of course." She amended.  
  
Snape grunted. McGonagall returned her attention to the window. Fawkes the phoenix could be seen, ruffling his feathers.  
  
"The mirror in his office must be a spyglass." She mused. "How on earth did Albus not realise? Or any of us? You know more about the Dark Arts, and related magical devices, than any of us, Severus. Haven't you ever noticed anything odd about Albus' mirror?"  
  
"Not particularly. I can't say I've looked at it much. I dislike mirrors. Mine addresses me very rudely."  
  
"I'm not surprised, given how you look in the mornings." Muttered Minvera. "Surely," she said aloud, "that thing can't have been in Dumbledore's office for long? But I don't remember a new mirror being installed recently."  
  
Snape didn't answer. He was frowning, concentrating deeply.  
  
"Why does it have to be recent?" He said suddenly. "What if the spyglass was fitted years ago…decades ago…perhaps before Dumbledore became headmaster, even?"  
  
"I suppose it's possible…but why? And why have the glass's receiving counterpart in the basement of a muggle house? That's the part that doesn't make sense."  
  
"It's possible the Mont-Streppings chose this accommodation *because* it had the receiver already fitted. If this is the type of spyglass I think it is, the receiver is non-mobile…it's a very elderly model, but reasonably effective if nothing else if available. I think the enemy came across the glass serendipitously and decided to use it for their own ends."  
  
"It's more likely than someone breaking in to Albus' office and fitting the device without him noticing. But who placed it there originally, and to what end?"  
  
To McGonagall's surprise, a strange, almost wistful smile crossed her colleague's face.  
  
"I think," he said softly, "that I can tell you *exactly* who placed the glass there, and why." He shook his head, frowning. "I can't believe I didn't realise immediately. The fall must have addled my brain."  
  
"Well? What are you waiting for? Explain!"  
  
Snape's smile returned. It wasn't the most pleasant of smiles - there was something mildly evil about it, McGonagall thought, as though Snape was indulging in thoughts he should be reprimanded for.  
  
"That's Salazar Slytherin's spyglass." He said, with a definite smirk.  
  
"It's…*what*?"  
  
"A legend…and, I always thought, a myth. If you had read the History of Slytherin House, and Salazar's own memoirs …"  
  
"That kind of literature does not appeal to me."  
  
"If you had read that fascinating volume," Snape growled, ignoring her, "you would have found reference to the final argument between Slytherin and Godric Gryffindor, which led to Slytherin's leaving the school. The Serpent Spyglass is mentioned briefly along with the Chamber of Secrets. Before Slytherin left, he placed the glass in Gryffindor's office, so that he might continue to observe his onetime friend, and ensure that his students were treated properly."  
  
"And in all these years, no one has noticed this?"  
  
Snape's smirk faded.  
  
"In all these years, no Slytherin has become headmaster or mistress of Hogwarts. Only someone from Slytherin House, who had risen to become head of the school, could use, or indeed even perceive, the glass."  
  
"How very bizarre."  
  
"Not really, when you consider how Salazar's mind worked. He really was rather peculiar…quite mad, in fact, at the end, but he never lost his profound intelligence. The Spyglass is a piece of art; a wonderful combination of Dark magic, cunning, and egotism. It is not merely a method of remote viewing; it is a portal, open only to Slytherin himself, and his potential, but sadly non-existent, successors at Hogwarts. "  
  
"How charming." McGonagall muttered. "May I assume," she went on, "that Slytherin's Heir could also use the glass, for his own ends?"  
  
"Unfortunately, that is likely to be the case. Doubtless the Dark Lord knows all about the Serpent Spyglass. He must have instructed those denizens of hell upstairs to buy this place, discreetly, so it could be used as a watching post. Merlin knows what He might have witnessed! It's almost as good as having a spy at Hogwarts - He must know everything. And what is far, far, worse - He may also know how to use the glass as a portal, giving him access to Dumbledore's office."  
  
McGonagall, latching on to the word 'portal', looked eagerly at Snape.  
  
"Is there any way *we* could use it?"  
  
"It isn't a fireplace, Minerva, it doesn't work by floo powder." Snape told her condescendingly. "I have already explained that use of the Glass is extremely limited."  
  
"Yes, I understand that, but surely there are ways around it…"  
  
"Slytherin was far too clever. Besides, we have no wands. What magic could we hope to perform? There's nothing we can do from this cellar. Using the Glass to observe is one thing, but using it as a portal quite another - whatever spells existed to open it have long since been lost. Hopefully, The Dark Lord may not yet know how to operate the portal, if we assume that it has only recently been discovered. The Mont-Streppings have not been in this accommodation for long, after all. We can but hope that the Spyglass' full potential remains a mystery as yet to the enemy."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
A/N But does it!? Find out in the next exciting instalment! Forgive the lack of action in this chapter, I was establishing a bit of plot…such as it is…please review and tell me what you think!  
  
* By the way, re Minerva's 'You're secretly a woman?' line: couldn't resist this reference to Alastair McGowan's sketch 'Louis Potter and the Philosopher's Scone'. For anyone who didn't see this, it's a combination of HP and Louis Theroux, an investigative interviewer who is known for asking searching and often very personal questions, usually getting an answer. When Louis and his friends Nigella and Ron Robinson (a combination of Ron and Anne Robinson) are in Professor Alan Rickman's class, the professor says, 'I'm secretly a woman. (Gasp) So it's true!' He then proceeds to say his lines while drinking a glass of water :-) The great mystery Louis must solve is: why does Professor Alan Rickman speak without opening his mouth? (Answer: he's eaten the Philosopher's Scone, and it's lodged at the back of his throat. Ron Robinson gets him to sick it up by winking at him). Another great line from the start of the sketch was from Hagrid, meeting Louis and telling him he had been granted a place at Hogwarts school of witchcraft, wizardry and investigative interviewing, because Louis is so brilliant an interviewer: 'I'm gay…I shouldn't have told you that…' But the classic moment was when instead of Voldemort, Gary Lineker turned up on the back of Quirrel's head… 


	7. Chapter Seven

A/N Thank you, thank you, thank you for the wonderful reviews :-) You people are magnificent. I'm glad you're still with me on this journey. I'm afraid from now on, though, we're going blind into whatever plot the Muse is going to create - the Spyglass idea was *not* intended to happen, it just sort of *did*, and I don't know where I'm going with it yet. Strange things may happen. Let's hope they do :-)  
  
Special thanks to my beta-reader Amy Tureen for her continued input and encouragement! You're the best :-)  
  
  
Chapter Seven  
  
"Stop wriggling!"  
"I'm not wriggling!"  
"Yes you are!"  
"Oh, for the love of..."  
McGonagall glanced down, trying to skewer her colleague with a glare, an attempt which failed given that she was balanced precariously on his shoulders, fiddling with the trapdoor.  
"Mind my arm." Snape grumbled.  
"Am I too heavy?"  
"Yes."  
"Well!"  
"Just hurry up."  
Minerva fumbled for another thirty seconds or so, then gave a sigh and dismounted, landing lightly on the floor. Snape stumbled backwards awkwardly, almost knocking her over. She grabbed his good arm and held him up.  
"Circus acts were never my strong point." He complained, dropping down anyway to sit cross-legged on the floor. Minerva knelt beside him.  
"There's absolutely no way to open the trapdoor without magic."  
"So I imagined."  
"It was worth a try."  
"No it *wasn't*, Minerva. Now I have an aching back and dislocated shoulder to go with my broken arm."  
"It isn't dislocated, you big baby." She prodded his shoulder unsympathetically. "It's fine."  
""Hmph."  
"It's no good 'hmph'ing. That won't get us out of here."  
"What *will*? What's your next big idea, McGonagall? Perhaps we should transfigure into moths and fly to freedom through a crack in the wall?"  
But McGonagall was still staring up at the trapdoor.  
"Severus."  
"What is it *now*?"  
"Look."  
Snape looked. The trapdoor was slowly, very slowly, opening. The two professors stepped back, unconsciously drawing closer to one another. They both jumped when a ladder appeared out of thin air; after a moment, the grotesque form of Octavian Mont-Strepping appeared, inch by inch, before them, followed by his wife.  
"Well!" Mont-Strepping's piggy eyes glinted with spite. "Still here then, I see? Ha ha ha!"  
"What do you want?" Snape hissed.  
"Just a little word, Sevvy, just a little word with you and your *colleague* here."  
"This woman is my wife!"  
"Ha ha ha!"  
"Hahaha!" Chimed in Agatha. "If that's true, why did she never correct me when I spent the whole evening calling her Minerva?"  
"I was being polite!" McGonagall returned, realising the lameness of this excuse. However, to her astonishment, the Mont-Streppings looked uncertain, and glanced bemusedly at each other.  
"Hmph. So you're saying you're not Minerva McGonagall, deputy headmistress of Hogwarts?"  
McGonagall was flabbergasted. Was it possible - could it be true that the Mont-Streppings were so stupid, she could convince them of the reality of her false identity despite the fact that they had known the truth all along? Surely no one could be so dim-witted! But Snape seemed to think the Mont-Streppings were quite thick enough to be deceived - he quickly put in,  
"She most certainly is not. True, there is a resemblance...a, er, *family* resemblance." He paused, hesitated.  
"Yes," Minerva jumped in, "I told you my niece was a witch, well, we think she gets it from her....er...grandmother's sister, who is also a witch. Her grandmother's sister is Minerva McGonagall."   
The Mont-Streppings were truly confused now. They stared at one another, then at Severus and Minerva. Octavian seemed to come to a decision. He smirked.  
"Well then, Severus...if this fine lady is indeed your wife, I'm sure you won't be averse to giving her a little kiss, will you, eh? After all, no man should be ashamed to kiss his wife, even in front of his worst enemy."  
"You are not my worst enemy, Octavian. Don't flatter yourself." Snape growled. He turned to Minerva, paused, staring into her eyes. She stared back, raised one eyebrow slightly. It was all the communication they needed. Grabbing her by the shoulders Snape leaned forward and pressed his lips passionately against McGonagall's; she froze for a moment, startled by his apparent enthusiasm, then slid her arms firmly around his neck.  
The Mont-Streppings, meanwhile, were looking at one another helplessly. There had obviously been a mistake somewhere. No one could fake a kiss like that.  
"All right, all right." Muttered Octavian irritably. "That's quite enough. Put her down, Sevvy, put her down, ha ha ha! Though you might as well make the most of it, it's the last kiss you'll ever have."  
"Mmph?" Snape demanded. He released McGonagall - who staggered slightly - and turned on their captors. "What do you mean by that?"  
Mont-Strepping's tiny eyes narrowed further, his flabby face suddenly becoming wrathful, malicious, almost evil.  
"You know what's coming, Sevvy, always a smart one, weren't you, eh? You see, Sevvy, I've got big plans for you...plans involving your imminent, violent death. But as for the Missus - well, my quarrel's not with her. It's just with you, Sevvy. Just you."  
Snape decided to try a bluff.  
"What exactly is it I'm supposed to have done, Mont-Strepping? Why do you wish me harm?"  
The answer completely astonished both Snape and McGonagall - of everything Mont-Strepping might have said - that he hated traitors, that he was being bribed by Voldemort, that he was trying to win the Dark Lord's favour - this was the last thing they had expected.  
"You abused our poor Narcissa!"  
"Yes but...I beg your pardon?" Snape gasped.  
"Our little Cissy! She was engaged to you...best days of her life...until you, you slimy git, broke her poor sweet heart!"  
Snape was utterly shocked. He and McGonagall stared helplessly at one another. Surely it could not be possible...it was too much....even the Mont-Streppings could not be so dim as to possess the one thing the Dark Lord would prize, the serpent spyglass, to have it in their cellar and *not even know about it*? Could it be that their little kidnapping venture had nothing to do with Voldemort, but was simply Octavian taking advantage of the meeting with Snape to perpetuate an old family feud? How utterly...gauche!  
"Oh, my God." Whispered McGonagall in disbelief.   
"So," Mont-Strepping went on briskly. "You can go." This to Minerva, who stared at him blankly. She recovered quickly, however.  
"What, and leave my husband in your clutches? Never!"  
"Go, woman!" Octavian hissed. "You know perfectly well Sevvy here would never sacrifice himself for you. Or anyone, in fact. He'd see you cursed in a minute if he thought it'd save his greasy hide, wouldn't you, Sevvy, ha ha ha!"  
"That's untrue." Snapped McGonagall, coldly. "And I refuse to leave him."  
Snape, however, was glaring at her, much to her surprise.  
"Margaret," he growled, "what's the purpose in both of us dying here? They're not interested in you. Go, and for Merlin's sake *tell uncle Al what's happened to me*!"  
There was a tense silence as two powerful personalities faced off against one another, the wordless battle of wills discernible even by the obtuse Mont-Streppings. Eventually McGonagall was forced to accept Snape's logic; as she had said herself, the mission was paramount: the work is everything, the man is nothing, as Flaubert once said.  
"I'll...go then." Murmured McGonagall, still bewildered, and increasingly alarmed. "Severus..."  
"Just go." He hissed. Minerva, helpless and apparently quite beside herself - but then, she was a good actress - hesitated again. Mont-Strepping produced a wand from his inside pocket and pointed it at her.  
"Unless you want to share his fate, muggle, you'll get out of here immediately! Ha ha ha!"  
There was nothing left to do. Snape jerked his head toward the trapdoor.  
"Go, quickly, before he changes his mind!"  
"Very well." Drawing herself up, McGonagall swallowed down the lump in her throat, and headed for freedom, giving the Mont-Streppings a wide berth. Before she reached the steps, however, she turned back, ran to Snape, took his hand between hers and held it tightly for a moment. He gazed at her sadly.  
"Goodbye, Margaret."  
"Goodbye, dear." She whispered, and hurried away. The moment she had left the cellar the trapdoor swung shut, leaving Snape alone with the Mont-Streppings.   
"Well then, Octavian." The potions master addressed his captor pleasantly enough. "Just what is you're planning to do with me?"  
"Put you to death in a horrible fashion, you nasty man! Hahaha!" Agatha squealed before her husband could answer. Octavian nodded vigorously.  
"You know, it's really very harsh." Mused Snape. "I've done a lot worse than break poor Cissy's heart. Besides, if you remember, she was the one who jilted me, for Lucius Malfoy."  
"Ha ha ha! But it was you who deliberately introduced her to him, just to get rid of her! The thing with that Malfoy git was a flash in the pan. She always loved you. She still does. But you never even answer her owls, poor little thing!"  
"Hmm. That's because I don't want Lucius Malfoy to have me hung, drawn and quartered."  
"Ha ha ha! You'd prefer us to do it, then! Ha ha ha!"  
"Hahaha!"  
"Ha ha ha!"  
"Quite." Snape murmured. "I don't suppose you're planning to leave me here until I rot, by any chance?"  
"No."  
"No!"  
"No, Sevvy! We've got better plans for you. And don't think there's any chance of escape..."  
"No chance!" Agatha chimed in.  
"...because we've done something terribly clever!"  
"Clever!" Echoed Agatha.  
"Ha ha ha!"  
"Hahaha!"  
"It's a curse," Mont-Strepping went on. "I think you can imagine what kind."  
"A binding curse, by any chance? Hardly clever, Mont-Strepping. It's the obvious thing to do in any kidnapping situation. I suppose," Snape added casually, "you're keeping the Wainthrops secure in the same manner."   
Octavian looked at Agatha. Smirked.  
"He knows."  
"Hahaha?"  
"But it won't do him any good! Ha ha ha! You think you're so clever, Sevvy..."  
"Clever." Said Agatha.  
"...but you've got it wrong this time. You may know all about the Wainthrops, but what you don't know is where they are now!"  
"Then why not tell me? You may as well, I'm going to die a horrible death, after all."  
"Ha ha ha! Too true! Too true! All right, then, we will tell you. Where are the Wainthrops, he asks? Ha ha ha! You're looking at 'em, Sevvy! You're looking at 'em!"  
There was a significant pause. Then Snape said:  
"Ah. Yes, I thought so."  
"Ah indeed! Ha ha ha! Now you're going to die. Slowly, and horribly, ha ha ha!"  
"I think not, Mont-Strepping!" With a lightning movement Snape brought his hand to his mouth. Agatha peered at him uncertainly.  
"Hahaha?"  
"Stop him!" Octavian roared, lunging forward. But he was too late. Snape gave a cry, crumpled to the floor and lay still. Agatha prodded him.  
"He's dead!"  
"Poison, damn him!" Octavian growled. "Wifey must've passed it to him. Saved himself from dying a slow painful death. Deprived us of our amusement too. Git!"  
"Git!"  
"Still, we finished him off, eh, Aggie?" Octavian grinned as he gazed down at the potions master's lifeless body. "Ha ha ha!"  
"Hahaha!"  
"Ha ha ha..."  
  
  
  
A/N Gasp! Is this the end? Well, no, there's another chapter to come. 


	8. Chapter Eight

A/N Here it is folks - the final chapter of 'When in Rome'. Phew! Now this is finished, I plan to get on with the numerous other unfinished stories in the bunch...  
  
Many, many thanks to every single one of you for reading and reviewing, and of course, thanks to my beta Amy, who never fails to say exactly the right things to make me feel good about my writing, as well as providing priceless technical assistance :-)  
  
As always a part of me is sorry this particular ride is over, especially since most of the fics I have to work on now are rather dark...  
  
But anyway, enough of my babbling - on with the show!  
  
  
  
Chapter Eight  
  
The Mont-Streppings finally tired of poking Snape's motionless body, and left. Minerva, hovering in the 'drawing room' out of sight of the cellar door, watched as the pair laughed their way through to what she assumed to be a bedroom. It was now or never - Minerva had no inclination to wait for the Mont-Streppings to disrobe before she made her move. Darting out of the room, clutching her wand (still in umbrella form) to her, she darted down the hall and flung open the bedroom door.  
The Mont-Streppings were in some sort of revolting clinch - Octavian had his jacket off - and their momentary distraction plus their chronic stupidity was more than enough to allow Minerva to execute a rapid *accio*! The Mont-Streppings' wands hurtled towards her and she caught them neatly.  
"Where is it?" She demanded.  
"Whu...wha...ha...er..." Octavian seemed completely gobsmacked. It was a pleasure to watch him fumble for the words to express his own dimwittedness.  
"You're...you're a witch!" Gasped Agatha.  
"Very good." McGonagall growled back, sounding remarkably like Snape. "My name, *dear* Aggie, is Minerva McGonagall. I am deputy headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and I feel I can say with complete assurance that I have never met a witch or wizard, of any age or from *any* background, who was quite so stupid as you two."  
Octavian was twitching.  
"You...you bint!" He squeaked. McGonagall advanced on him slowly.  
"Sticks and stones, Octavian - but you don't have any of those left. Where is the list?"  
"In...in..."  
"Don't tell her!" Wailed Aggie.  
"Where is it?" Repeated Minerva, calmly.  
"No! No!"  
"Octavian. I am an expert in Transfiguration. Turning you into a cream donut and forcing your fat wife to eat you would be a matter of utter simplicity to me." Minerva smiled to herself and thanked all those hours she had spent bickering with Severus. She had to admit that the man had a wonderful technique when it came to intimidation.  
"Octy! I don't want to eat you!" Agatha moaned.  
McGonagall pointed her umbrella at Octavian.  
"You have five seconds to decide. Five..."  
"We can't tell!"  
"Four..."  
"We won't!"  
"Three..."  
"Agh!"  
"Two..."  
"Please! Mercy! We only want to give the list to the Dark Lord so we can return to his circle with glory. You can understand that, can't you?"  
"Time's up."  
"Nooooo!"  
"Give it to her! Give it to her! Give it to her!" Chanted Agatha hysterically. McGonagall held out her hand. Octavian, trembling, opened the top drawer of his bedside table and fished out a rather grubby bit of parchment.  
"That's what you wanted, isn't it?" He muttered. And ate it. McGonagall stared at him in disbelief.  
"I've memorised every name on that list! I will take my information to His Greatness and live a life of glorious evil!" Octavian declaimed.  
"Stop blathering and tell me the names on that list, or I'll do worse to you that turn you into a pastry, Mont-Strepping."   
Octavian shook his head.  
"Never! And if you don't leave, we'll..."  
"You'll what?"  
"We'll..."  
"I'm waiting."  
"Well..."  
"Just give me the names and I'll restrain my desire to turn you both into beetles and crush you."  
"Never!"  
"Never!"  
"Fine. I'm going to enjoy this." She raised her wand again. Behold Octavian the beetle.  
"Ooh!" Aggie moaned. "Octy! Octy, can you hear me?"  
The beetle - a rather fat and dim looking member of the species - began scuttling in frantic circles. McGonagall placed her right foot above the scurrying creature.  
"Noooo!" Wailed Agatha.  
"I'm offering you a chance to save your husband. What was on that list?"  
"All right! All right, I'll tell you."   
McGonagall lowered her foot, grabbed a glass from the bedside table, and put it upside down over Octavian-beetle.   
"You have five minutes." She told Agatha.  
There was a pause.  
"I can't remember." Mont-Strepping femme replied.  
"Jog your memory quickly." Growled McGonagall.  
"All right!" And Agatha reeled off a list of names. McGonagall eyed her narrowly, then swiftly scooped up the trapped beetle and held it before its wife's bulging eyes.  
"I threatened to make you eat him, Agatha..."  
"No!"  
"Give me the real names, now, and I'll go away and leave you both in peace."  
"You...won't hurt us?"   
"I'm not a barbarian. All I want is what I came for."  
"But...don't you want revenge?"  
"For what?"  
"Your husband!"  
"Severus Snape is most certainly not my husband." Replied Minerva firmly.  
Agatha whimpered.  
"Very well." She hissed, eyeing McGonagall hatefully.  
Five minutes later, Minerva left the Mont-Streppings' bedroom with a sheet of notepaper, on which she had transcribed the names Agatha had eventually given, and with which her husband had separately concurred. The pair were hardly intelligent enough to concoct a consistent list of false names to be used during questioning. Minerva opened the cellar easily from the outside and made her way carefully down the steps.  
Snape was sprawled in a heap of beige and blood, motionless, his black hair falling over his face. Minerva leaned over him, smoothed the hair - wiping her hand on her dress afterwards - gently pulled him into a position in which he was not lying on his damaged arm, and pointing her umbrella at him, muttered an enervating charm. Snape mumbled and twitched. McGonagall slapped his face gently.  
"Wake up, come on now."  
"Hmmm?"  
"Wake up, Severus! I have the information we need. Come on!"   
Grumbling, Snape allowed himself to be pulled into a sitting position. He offered Minerva a sleepy scowl.  
"It worked then." He muttered.  
"Yes. Perfectly. Because they thought I was a Muggle, they never suspected that I could attack them. But it was a gamble on your part - what if they'd decided to do dreadful things to your 'corpse'?"  
"It was far less likely than them doing dreadful things to me while alive." He replied crisply, getting slowly to his feet, and stretching. "Ouch!"  
"Oh, you arm - here, let me..." The wand was employed once more. Not being an expert in magical medicine, Minerva had cast a simple analgesic charm and fixed the arm in place until it could be properly mended.  
"Thanks." Snape said shortly, looking down at the limb. "Now - what do we do about *that*?" He pointed to the Serpent Spyglass, which they had covered over once more before the Mont-Streppings' final entry into the cellar.  
"I can't believe," remarked Minerva, "that even those two could be so stupid as to have the spyglass in their cellar, and not know about it. I think they found it here while house-hunting, or something, and were biding their time to make a gift of it to Voldemort."  
"Agreed."  
"In which case, there is only one option."  
"I know..." Snape removed the covering and gazed wistfully into the glass. Dumbledore could be seen at his desk, stroking his beard thoughtfully as he went through some papers.  
"Over a thousand years old..." the potions master sighed.  
"Don't make personal remarks!" Minerva admonished.  
"I meant the glass, woman!" He snapped, thoroughly awake now. "But I suppose I we must destroy it, we may as well get it over with..." taking his wand From McGonagall - she had fetched it from the umbrella stand along with hers - he aimed it reluctantly at the glass. Before he could say anything, however, a sudden, violent tapping drifted down to the cellar.  
"What's that?" Snape hissed.  
"Somebody at the front door." Replied Minerva, anxiously.  
"What have you done with the Mont-Streppings? Are they in any state to answer?"  
"I used a memory charm. They won't recall anything about you being a spy for Dumbledore, or about the list, or about the spyglass."  
"Then we'll just leave it and hope whoever it is doesn't investigate further."  
The knocking continued unabated, however, and after a few minutes a voice could be heard shouting,  
"Octavian! Octavian, come out of there!"  
Snape visibly paled.  
"Oh Merlin." He muttered. "It's Malfoy."  
"Lucius Malfoy?"  
"The same. I'd recognise that voice anywhere."  
"Octavian!" This time a female voice.  
"Narcissa!" Snape almost groaned.  
"What are they doing here?" Demanded McGonagall.  
"I'd bet a thousand Galleons it isn't a social call. They're here for the list, or the glass, probably both."  
"The Mont-Streppings must have been expecting them. If no one comes to the door...Severus, we must do something immediately."  
Snape rubbed his chin, apparently on the horns of a dilemma. He shook his head, then abruptly grabbed Minerva by the shoulders.  
"If they send me to Azkaban will you come to visit me?"  
"Severus...what are you going to do?"  
"There's no choice." He ran up the steps. "Where are they?"  
"The bedroom...what are you planning?"  
"It's better if you don't know. Or at least pretend not to notice." Snape threw open the bedroom door. The Mont-Streppings lay side by side, unconscious, upon the bed. Snape grabbed Octavian and shook him violently.  
"Wake up, you git!"   
"Er...what...who...eh?"  
"Imperio!" Snape cried.  
McGonagall gasped.  
"Severus, that's an unforgivable curse!"  
"I've done a lot of unforgivable things. I've always been forgiven before" Was the dry response.  
Controlling the cursed Mont-Strepping as easily as a puppet, Snape directed him to the front door. The two professors slipped back down to the cellar, leaving the trapdoor open to listen to the conversation going on above.  
"Octavian. Finally! We've come for the merchandise." The spine-tingling voice of Lucius Malfoy sounded clearly in the cellar.  
"Merchandise? Oh. I'm afraid there's been a problem with that, ha ha ha!"  
"Problem?" Hissed Malfoy.  
"Problem?" Echoed Narcissa's bloodcurdling purr.  
"Yes, ha ha ha, the truth is I'm a dimwitted git with less intellect than a dead goat, ha ha ha..."  
"Severus!" Admonished Minerva, softly. Snape shrugged.  
"So you see, ha ha ha, we no longer have the list."  
"What!?"  
"We lost it. Burnt it. Accidentally of course. Ha ha ha..."  
"And the glass?" Demanded Malfoy.  
"Glass...?"  
"Oh, get out of the way, imbecile!"  
"Ha ha ha..."  
Pounding footsteps coming closer.  
"He's coming down here!" Minerva exclaimed.   
"Nowhere to hide. We'll have to kill him."  
"That's your answer to everything." Muttered McGonagall. "There's a better way. Do you trust me?"  
"Ah...can I consider that for a while?"  
"We don't have time!"  
"Very well. Yes, I trust you."  
"Good. Close your eyes and relax."  
"What are you..." but Snape was cut off in mid-sentence by a flash from Minerva's wand, and a moment later, Snape-the-fox sat looking bewildered on the cold stone floor. Minerva quickly transfigured herself, and dragged Snape-fox into a dark corner behind a pile of old cardboard boxes.  
It was not a moment too soon. Lucius Malfoy stalked into the cellar, followed by Narcissa, who wrinkled her perfect nose at the dank smell. Lucius approached the wall on which the Serpent Spyglass was mounted, smirking triumphantly. In the corner, Minerva-cat tensed, preparing to employ the element of surprise to its full advantage, when Malfoy gave a sudden roar of rage.  
"It's gone!"  
"Gone?" Narcissa sashayed over. "Where is it?" She wondered, not sounding especially bothered.  
"How should I know? Where's Mont-Strepping?"  
"Lukey, Lukey." Soothed Narcissa. "It isn't Octavian's fault. The Spyglass must have been relocated."  
"And who could have done that? There are only handful of pureblood Slytherin wizards in the country who might have been able to use the Spyglass. And all of them are working for us - I mean, for the Dark Lord."  
"Sevvy could do it." Purred Narcissa, dreamily. McGonagall-cat shot a half-amused glance at Snape-fox, who buried his nose in his paws.  
"He *could*, " agreed Malfoy, "but he doesn't know anything about the Spyglass. Voldemort does not trust him sufficiently yet for that. He wouldn't have known how to activate it, much less relocate it. And besides...I have complete faith in Severus."  
"Ooh, so do I...he's so sinewy."  
"Yes...true." Murmured Malfoy. Snape-fox gave a small unhappy whine; McGonagall-cat poked him with a paw to shut him up.  
"We should return to the Dark Lord immediately and report this development." Declared Lucius. "As for your foul relations...we'll see what Voldemort makes of them!"  
With that dramatic statement, 'Lukey' and 'Cissy' departed. McGonagall-cat crept carefully out of her corner, followed by a dazed-looking fox-Snape. Sure that the coast was clear, Minerva transfigured, and looked down thoughtfully at the animal at her feet. It was a small, sleek, red fox, with a twisted front leg, and Snape's glittering black eyes.  
"I always suspected that had you become an animagus, you might have been a fox." Minerva mused. "I have an instinct for such things."   
The fox sat up on its hind legs and gave her what could only be a canine glare. Minerva reached down to fondle the velvety head. Snape-fox snarled meaningfully.  
"Oh, I'm sorry..." a swift spell, and Severus Snape stood before her, looking annoyed.  
"Next time you Transfigure me into an animal, McGonagall, do give me some notice."  
"I beg your pardon. There wasn't much alternative."  
"Hmph." Snape wandered over to examine empty space which the Spyglass had occupied. "At least this means the Dark Lord has not been spying on us - obviously no one believed the Glass to be active."  
"Well then, you must have activated it."  
"I suppose so...from what Malfoy said, I doubt the Mont-Streppings could have done so by themselves. But how could I activate the device without even realising it? I hadn't even got my wand."  
"What exactly did you do, when we first discovered the glass?"  
Snape thought.  
"I did nothing except uncover it." He replied, after a moment.  
It was McGonagall's turn to ponder.  
"You told me," she mused, "that Salazar Slytherin set up the Spyglass so that only those he considered worthy of the legacy could use it - his own heir, presumably, and any Slytherin headmaster or mistress of Hogwarts."  
"True."  
"Well...obviously being the head of Slytherin House must count, especially since there have been no Slytherin headmasters."  
"There's still time. Perhaps it's foreshadowing." Suggested Snape, with a smirk.  
"Not in my lifetime." Came the smart response. "The point I'm making," McGonagall continued, "is that possibly someone 'worthy' of the Spyglass wouldn't need to *do* anything to operate it - it would just happen, naturally. You said Slytherin was a genius; he would have been more than capable of such magic."  
"You're suggesting that the Spyglass has a form of rudimentary artificial intelligence? That it responded to my subconscious commands?"  
McGonagall nodded. There was silence for a moment.  
"At the time we discovered it," admitted Snape eventually, "I wanted nothing more than to be at Hogwarts, with Albus. The Spyglass showed me Albus, relaxed and safe in his office. And when I desired that Lucius Malfoy should not find it, he did not, against all logic. Is that how it works? And if so, it would suggest that this device is far cleverer and more dangerous than we previously believed."  
"How so?"  
"The Glass was able to show me Albus; according to legend, this was because Slytherin placed a transmitter in Gryffindor's office. But isn't it rather unlikely that after a thousand years no one would have found it? I suggest that, to the small number of people capable of using it, the Spyglass can use *any* mirror, anywhere, as a transmitter."  
"Merlin!" Exclaimed McGonagall, astonished. "Then it certainly must never fall into Voldemort's hands!"  
"I agree. The problem is - how do we find it again? If it has relocated, where would it have gone?"  
"Perhaps you commanded it to destroy itself."  
"Possibly. We may never know...in fact, let us hope that we never do."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The Hideyhole, Muggle London, 8p.m  
  
"Well? What do you think?"  
McGonagall pirouetted in a dignified way, the better to show off the glimmering green dress she wore. Her hair was down, splayed across her shoulders. She looked almost - Romany.  
"Perfect." Snape told her. He was wearing a dinner jacket, and appeared far more comfortable in black than he had in the grotesque - and completely ruined - beige suit.  
"I'm glad you like it."  
"So - where is this fancy restaurant we're supposed to be going to?"  
"Did I say we were going to a restaurant?"  
"Well - you said 'dinner' and told me to wear this penguin suit, so I assumed..."  
"It isn't far."  
"Oh?"  
"In fact...step through."  
Snape followed her into the lounge, puzzled. And froze.  
"Do you like it?" Minerva asked, softly.  
The lounge had been converted into a dining room. It looked far bigger. In the centre, a table was set for two. A single candle was the only light in the room, apart from moonlight, which poured through the window.  
"Amazing." Murmured Snape. "But why?"  
"I just thought we deserved something a little special for our last night as muggles - our last night as husband and wife." She drew out a chair. "Sit down."   
He sat, looking a little uncomfortable. Correctly guessing the source of his discomfort, McGonagall smiled.   
"Don't worry - I didn't cook. I used caterers."  
"Ah. Er...good."  
The meal was excellent. They sat together talking for some time afterwards, drinking red wine in the moonlight.  
"I'm glad we did this. I've enjoyed this evening." Snape remarked, after a while. Minerva smiled at him.  
"So have I. I almost wish..."  
"What?"  
"Nothing, Severus. It doesn't matter." 


End file.
